


Refuge

by kae_hunter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Zone of Truth, canon divergence circa e83-85
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kae_hunter/pseuds/kae_hunter
Summary: Essek watches Caleb languidly through the lashes of his usable eye. He has unquestionably just endured the worst day of his entire life: his title, his Den, the respect of his Queen, everything he’s worked towards for the past half-century, crumbled to dust in an instant. Adding injury to insult, he barely survived the two separate ambushes set by his former colleagues long enough to deliver himself as a warning to possibly the only people who might avert the impending apocalypse. In the past half hour, he has been repeatedly (and very painfully) jolted to and from the brink of death like a child’s yo-yo. And yet...And yet, seeing this human’s face—this foreigner, who, not so long ago, he might have imprisoned or killed as “Empire scum” without a second thought—the tender studiousness of Caleb Widogast’s expression, as he gently dabs at Essek’s eyelid with a damp cloth... Essek finds himself strangely at peace with it all.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 73
Kudos: 769





	1. Chapter 1

Caleb freezes after lighting the first lamp in the study at the Xhorhaus. Something is wrong—Something doesn’t match the image of his last memory of this place. One chair pulled out and left askew from the order of the table. Caleb had thought he was the last one in this room before they left for Nicodranas, months ago now, but perhaps Nott had snuck back in for an extra vial of acid for the road. No reason to be alarmed, Caleb reassures himself. He has a right to be a little jumpy after everything that’s happened, but one oddly-placed chair is nothing to get worked up about.

Only when he has lit the second lamp on the other side of the door, does he notice the handprint smeared on the far edge of the table, near where the chair should sit. Too big to be left by a goblin. The red is only a little brighter than the purple of the Xhorassian wood. Caleb’s heart rate spikes again, alarm bells jangling in his mind. 

Carefully, he backs out of the room and sends a Message to his companions upstairs. “I think someone has been in the house since we left. Check for traps, be on your guard.”

The rest of the Nein reply with various degrees of bemusement, but ultimately heed his warning. Caleb risks a glance back through the door. Nothing else in the room seems disturbed; drawers and cabinets are closed, books and labelled bottles and various alchemical glassware all look untouched, exactly as they were left plus a layer of dust. Nothing between the main entry and this room appears displaced, either. 

Caleb returns to the study door, wishing he could chide himself for his paranoia, but not reassured enough to drop it completely. With a sigh, he poofs Frumpkin into the study. 

His blood freezes.

From the cat’s perspective on the ground, Caleb has an unobstructed view of the crumpled body lying just on the far side of the table, facing away, blood pooling on the stone floor beneath. Frumpkin catches a glint of metal over the disheveled cloak that obscures much of the form. Dark lines protrude from the body at odd angles—it is riddled with arrows, or maybe crossbow bolts.

Creeping towards the figure’s head, it’s missing the helmet normally worn by Kryn guards and soldiers; the pale hair shines like spilled moonlight in the dim light of the study. Rounding closer for a clearer look, Caleb recognizes the curly swoop of the forelock before he even sees the face—

“Essek!” Caleb recoils into his own senses and stumbles into the room, dry-mouthed, heart hammering.

Caleb drops to his knees next to the fallen drow and pulls the copper wire from his pocket, aiming for the top of the tower.

“Caduceus.” With terrible effort, he forces a whisper past the knot of horror strangling his voice. “I need your help right now, please. In the study. I found—“ Caleb can’t bring himself to say the name aloud. “Alive or dead I do not know yet, but either way I will need your help. Please hurry.”

There is a slight pause before Caduceus replies. “Okay... That sounds serious. I’m kinda up to my elbows in fertilizer at the moment, but I’ll be down there just as soon as I can. Hang tight.”

Caleb turns back to the prone figure before him and tries to smother the flicker of desperate hope in his chest—denial, call it what it is—before it can grow to burn him when it turns to despair. He must steel himself for the worst.

Essek’s eyes are closed, his skin cold to the touch. Aside from the scattering of arrows embedded in his flesh, there is a deep gash above his right eyebrow, and portions of his clothing appear charred. The air in the study is not especially chilly, but the metal of Essek’s elaborate mantle carries a thin layer of condensation, which drips and runs in places, mingling with trails of blood. 

The details of his form are somewhat obscured beneath the cloak and mantle, but Caleb can detect no movement of breath in his chest. A touch to the pulse point in Essek's neck feels only the pounding of Caleb’s own blood in his fingertips—or? He can't find it again. A minor irregularity in his own jittering heartbeat, surely, nothing more. A hand placed near Essek’s lips finds only the slight current of ambient air, lacking the warmth and strength of a living breath.

Due diligence done, Caleb rolls the body onto its back, to look on the face of the man he abandoned to this fate. With a trembling hand, he brushes aside a stray lock of snowy hair, fingers lingering on the drow’s cold cheek.

He cannot allow sentiment to put anyone else in danger. The howl of anguish filling the back of his mind, the sting in his eyes, the rising flood of guilt and despair and wretchedness—all must be shorn away, partitioned and compacted to prevent them from clouding his thoughts. Time for that later. What happens next is crucial.

Calling Caduceus was an appropriate first step. He can interrogate the body, ask it who did this and how to stop them. Any scrap of information they can gather is a boon.

He has already searched the room for signs of struggle and found nothing. From a purely practical standpoint, it would be difficult to fit enough archers in this room, to do this to a person. Essek must have come here from somewhere else. Peering around low to the floor, he spots it: a stick of spellcasting chalk, blue and glittering with gem dust, stained crimson on one end, rolled beneath a cabinet. Essek must have dropped it when he teleported in. Caleb stares at it for a long moment, laid in his palm, before wiping the blood off onto his jacket and pocketing it. No sense wasting a good spell component. It may well save their lives later.

One question spins in Caleb’s mind, a loose cog rattling in the clockwork: Why come here? 

The Nein have been away from the Xhorhaus for months, with no indication that they might return until Jester sent her message this morning. Was Essek alive, at that time? If so, why would he not reply to her, if he meant to seek their aid? 

Maybe he landed there accidentally; teleportation is tricky magic. It would not be the first time something had gone wrong. Maybe he was aiming for his own study and missed the mark. Maybe he was an agent of Tharizdun all along, was rooted out by the Kryn authorities, and meant to use the last of his strength to set a deadly trap. Maybe he was just hoping the Nein had left behind a spare healing potion.

That message, though. Jester had said she was uncertain whether the spell had reached its recipient at all. It had made Caleb uneasy then, and the obvious explanation is laid before him now, confirming his worst fears—

The body on the ground shudders.

Caleb's heart stops. His reflex is to glance wildly around the room, expecting to find some necromancer or illusionist lurking in the shadows. But they are alone in the study; even Detect Magic only picks up the expected aura of items that he and Essek are personally carrying.

Essek’s form next to him lies as still as it was a moment ago. Maybe he imagined it—maybe he only heard a mouse scurrying somewhere in the dark. It would not be the first time his mind has played tricks on him, certainly.

Essek coughs, weakly.

Caleb gathers the drow into his arms and pats his face urgently, hissing his name—nothing. With shaking hands, he undoes the fastenings of Essek’s mantle, prying away the shell to expose the soft body beneath. Sure enough, there is a slight rise and fall to the chest; so shallow that the slim gap between the metal and the cloth beneath was enough to mask it. Pressing an ear to his sternum, the heartbeat is unmistakable, but weak, slow—possibly getting slower as Caleb listens—

“Caduceus!” He calls out as loud as he dares, hoping that the Bright Queen’s spies have taken a break from monitoring the house. “Jester! Anyone with some healing, I need you down here right away, please!” 

Caleb searches his pockets for healing potions, but they haven’t taken the time to restock since the punishing series of battles to retake the Wildmother’s temple on the Menagerie Coast. He tries again, fruitlessly, to wake the Shadowhand.

Caduceus swoops into the room, sleeves rolled up, hands mostly clean save for a ring of dirt up past the elbows. He hustles past the table as quickly as he can, casting Spare the Dying on the dark form in Caleb’s arms as soon as he’s in range. Caleb rocks back and forth where he sits, pleading with the unhearing Essek in a rough whisper. Caduceus gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Let me take a look.”

The cleric is relieved to find that the Shadowhand is still among the living, if just barely. He lays a palm on Essek’s chest and gives him a dose of Cure Wounds, as strong as he can make it. Caduceus can feel the magic take, but it flows slowly, like rain seeping into frozen soil. It’s nearly a minute before the drow begins to stir.

Essek’s head lolls, and his brows pinch for a moment before he opens an eye to blink dazedly up at Caleb. His right eye is pasted shut with gore from the wound in his head; the other squints, not quite able to focus.

“...Widogast?” Essek reaches up to touch Caleb’s cheek—his fingers are freezing, and Caleb reflexively takes the drow’s hand in his own to lend some warmth. A soft, dreamy smile spreads across the Shadowhand’s face as he becomes surer in his recognition. “You came back...”

Essek coughs again, wetly, and his gaze sharpens. “You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe— You need to leave immediately.” Agitated, he clutches at the collar of Caleb’s coat and tries to pull himself up. “You were right—“ A fit of coughing overtakes him, threatening to push him back into unconsciousness.

Air rattles in Essek’s chest as he fights to catch his breath. “I mean it. You need to get out of the city.” His voice is raspy and weak, barely above a whisper. “You were right about the conspiracy. I do not know if it reaches the Queen herself, but several of the highest-ranking members of Den Kryn— _ghhhhck_ ” 

Caduceus holds up the arrow he just plucked free from Essek’s side. “Sorry, keep talking. You’ve got a bunch of these to deal with.” 

The arrow is a nasty piece of work, covered in spiny, quill-like barbs that catch and fan out when the shaft is pulled backwards, to do as much damage coming out as they do going in. 

Caduceus makes a face. “Wow, that’s just _mean_.” He sets it aside, and starts peeling away the rest of Essek’s heavy cloak.

Caleb offers Essek a hand to squeeze, and the wounded drow accepts gratefully, resting his head against Caleb’s shoulder as he continues his report.

“There is— The cult of the Angel of Irons has a secret sect within Rosohna. They are trying to—“ Essek gasps again as Caduceus removes another arrow, this time from his abdomen. “They believe the Angel is an avatar of the Luxon. They think.... They think they can.... “

Essek pants, sweating and shaking, trying to catch his breath as several unstoppered wounds are now bleeding freely, making his vision swim with sparks. “They believe the gods conspired to weaken the Luxon’s power at the beginning of their reign, and sealed it away... They would release it, so it can burn this world away... create it anew. The consecuted would be reborn.... guide the fresh world... into an era...” Just as darkness overtakes his consciousness, another quick spell from Caduceus brings him back.

“But—hah—of course, it is not the Luxon. For _so_ many reasons, it should be obvious—which perhaps I will explain at another time.” Essek blinks through the veil of static that still threatens to overwhelm him. “I have reason to believe... Given recent reports of cult activity at particular sites, and the connection to the Abyss, with portals opened all over Wildemount... all point back to the sealing of Tharizdun, during the Calamity. Obviously, this is a very serious problem.”

Essek begins listing names of known conspirators in the Dynasty as Caduceus continues his work, but his voice gets fainter every time he is brought back from the brink; Caleb has to lean in close to hear him. 

Caduceus notes that pulling two arrows from Essek’s scrawny thigh barely seemed to catch his attention. It’s getting harder to keep him conscious, though—the cleric is trying to save the stronger healing magic for after he’s removed everything that shouldn’t be there, but the weaker spells only seem to keep Essek up long enough to take out one or two arrows before he starts to fade again. It might be kinder just to let him go and revive him once everything is dealt with, but they’ve only got the one diamond left, and Caduceus has a feeling they’re not going to get any shopping done in Rosohna after all.

One arrow seems to have caught Essek in the spleen—the wound hemorrhages when Caduceus pulls it free, and a first-level spell only slows the bleeding by half. Caduceus frowns. “Mister Caleb, if I could get you to put some pressure on that for a sec, that’d be a big help.”

Essek’s grip on Caleb’s hand has weakened significantly since the start of this ordeal. Caleb kisses his knuckles and lays the drow’s hand to rest on his chest before pressing his own palm to the wound. Essek strokes the human’s wiry wrist with his thumb and tries to keep his breathing measured through the pain.

“The fact that they are trying to frame me for the Beacon’s theft makes me hopeful.... perhaps the Queen herself is not involved. If their plan depends on deceiving her, she would be a powerful ally... if we could show her the truth.“

The last arrow looks like it might be tricky, though; there’s only about an inch of it sticking out under his right collarbone, and the downward angle of it suggests a dangerous internal trajectory. Searching Essek’s back, Caduceus can’t find an exit wound. The cleric wraps his sleeve around the protruding nub for better traction.

“...but if Leylas Kryn is complicit... turning the public against her, even with proof that the war was a facade, and that she means to destroy all of Creation—“ A sharp yank brings the arrow partway out of Essek’s chest, crumpling and shredding into his lung with razorlike spines. The drow manages one weak, gurgling cough and goes still.

“Sorry—“ The firbolg gives another quick Cure Wounds, just enough to keep Essek stable so that the next pull won’t kill him. The drow spasms, fighting to take a breath that his ruined lungs won’t accept. 

“Really sorry. This last one’s kind of a doozy.” Caduceus adjusts his grip on the arrow and pulls again. He’s aiming for speed over gentleness here, knowing that the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can heal the damage; but it still takes several agonizing seconds to drag it out, rooted as deep as it is in the meat of his chest. Essek’s struggling grows weaker until his body falls slack, blood bubbling from between his lips.

“Essek!” Caleb clutches tighter at the drow’s limp frame, transfixed with horror as inch after inch of bloody shaft is drawn from between his ribs. The moment the arrow has cleared, Caduceus sends another powerful burst of healing through Essek’s body. 

Essek chokes on the first breath he’s taken in nearly a minute, and spends some time gagging and hacking blood onto the floor. Caleb holds his forehead, keeping the pale flop of his hair out of the mess. 

Caduceus keeps a hand on the wounded elf’s shoulder, expending the last of his healing spells. “Yeah, that was a lot. You’re gonna be okay now, though. Just take it easy.”

Eventually the fit subsides; Essek slumps back into Caleb’s lap, sides heaving with ragged breath. His dark shirt is damp with sweat wherever it wasn't already drenched in crimson. Caleb draws him close, murmuring something in Zemnian and fussing to keep the drow’s hair out of his face. Essek is trembling like a leaf, but he forces a weak chuckle, mouth still red with blood. “That was indeed, as you say... ‘a lot.’”

“You look like you could use a drink,” Caduceus offers. “I’m gonna go make some tea.”

The firbolg dusts himself off and heads for the kitchen; Caleb remains fully attentive to Essek, massaging the drow’s cold, stiff fingers. “Something warm would do you good, I think... You are still freezing. How long have you been lying here?”

Essek snorts faintly. “I have not the slightest idea. Probably less than a day.”

The others have all filed into the study at this point, having rushed to answer Caleb’s initial shout; seeing that Caduceus had the situation under control, they’ve hung back, milling awkwardly around the edges of the large study table. Beau steps forward now, crouching down to get closer to eye-level with Essek.

“So, uh, Shadowhand Thelyss—“

Essek coughs. “No longer Shadowhand. No longer Thelyss, either, for that matter. I have been, ah... _relieved_ of my title and den status, for the time being.” 

“Oh. Bummer.” Beau fumbles for a more polite way to express the sentiment, but quickly gives up. “Anyway, I guess just _Essek_ , you wanna tell us exactly what happened here? Are people gonna be looking for you?”

Essek raises a hand, pointing to an obsidian band around his finger. “They will have a hard time finding me, I think, until they come here in person. But I do not doubt they will be coming for _you_ now, regardless; you are my known associates, and if I am a traitor then you all are surely spies.” He opens an eye, fixing an amber stare in her direction.

Beau frowns. “Why not just arrest us as soon as we stepped off the teleportation circle?”

“Did you tell anyone you were returning to Rosohna?”

Jester pipes up, looking uncertain. “I mean... we told _you_... But did you even get my message earlier? It kind of felt like you didn’t get it.”

Essek shakes his head. “I may have been... unavailable, already, if it was very recent. But if you did not inform the Queen or anyone else of your arrival, they would not be ready for you then. You are all known to be formidable fighters. They will likely wait until you have all bedded down in your separate rooms, to strike when you are least prepared.”

Fjord starts, suddenly, and draws his sword from the air, speaking an activation word that makes the blade glow blue. His eyes take on a sheen of the same glow, and he peers around the room suspiciously. “No scrying eyes, at the moment.”

Caduceus comes back from the kitchen with a tray bearing a steaming teapot and several cups. He furrows his eyebrows at Fjord, seeing the Wildmother’s pact-blade drawn and shimmering. “Do I need to be worried about something?”

“Just checking.” Fjord waves off his concern. “Though I think I’ll keep this out, for now, in case I see any _flies_ that need swatting.”

“I mean, that seems like overkill for a fly, but okay.” Skirting around the table, Caduceus sets the tray down on the floor in front of Caleb and Essek.

He pours tea into one mug and places it near Caleb’s knee, warning that it might need another minute or two to cool. Asking if anyone else wants some, Jester, Yasha, and Beau take him up on the offer, and he serves them too. He pours one more cup for himself, savoring the earthy, faintly floral scent that carries a hint of summer rainfall. The Aldertons: always a soothing blend in stressful times. 

Nott has been watching everything from a perch on the table, her legs dangling over the edge; she hops down now, to the other side of Caduceus and Beau.

“You say you’re being _framed_ , for being the mole. But how do we know you’re not just _actually the mole_ , trying to trick us?” She points in Essek’s face with exaggerated suspicion. 

“Oh no; you’ve found me out,” Essek deadpans, not opening his eyes. “I, a maniacal and _supremely_ gullible servant of the Chained Oblivion, came to leave my corpse on your doorstep, as.... some kind of threat? For some nefarious purpose, no doubt.”

Caleb turns to face him now, troubled. “That has been bothering me, actually. Why _did_ you come here? Surely you could not have known we would return in time to save you.”

“No.” Weariness sets into the lines of Essek’s face. “But I do know that at least one among you can communicate with the dead. I would have to hope you ask the right questions, but it was my best chance of delivering the information I have just given you.” He settles back, leaning further into Caleb’s chest. “I much prefer this method. More reliable by far.”

Caleb sighs, disturbed and impressed in equal measure by the former Shadowhand’s morbid practicality. He checks the temperature of the mug beside him, and spends a few moments carefully swirling the tea and blowing across its surface before he offers it to Essek.

As nonchalant as his demeanor has been for the past few minutes, there is still an obvious tremor to Essek’s hands as he reaches to accept the cup. Compensating for his current lack of depth perception seems to require the full effort of his concentration. Caleb does not release the mug, instead allowing Essek to guide it to his lips as Caleb holds it steady.

The tea does not scald, but is as warm as Essek can comfortably handle at the moment. It takes a few sips to wash the thick, salt-copper taste of his own blood from his mouth, but the heat alone is marvelous. It melts the chill from his core, quiets the shaking of his overtaxed muscles. He drinks slowly, relishing the sensation but taking care not to lose himself in it, yet; as long as they remain in Rosohna, the danger has not passed.

The others are debating their next move. “—I don’t think that is a good idea, Fjord. If she doesn’t believe him, she might have him _executed_ —“ Jester’s voice squeaks with anxiety at the thought.

“Oh, the Queen would not have me killed, if I could be brought in alive,” Essek comments, casually. “At least not for some time. I am still on my first lifetime, but I have already received the rites of Consecution. If I were to die, I would simply be reborn somewhere else, and it would be difficult to track me down when my soul resurfaced.

“Alive, however, they would need only to part me from my hands and tongue to remove the threat of my spellcasting, and thus keep me imprisoned indefinitely. In theory, certain dunamantic enchantments can extend a life thousands of times past its natural span, assuming the subject’s sanity is not a priority.” Essek placidly drains the last of his tea, a little amused by the horrified pall that has settled over his allies.

Caleb sets the empty mug back on Caduceus’s tray with a sigh. “Well, I think we can all agree that we are not doing any plans that get anyone here tortured and imprisoned for all eternity, _ja_?” Mutters of agreement roll around the room.

The discussion of potential next steps is picked up again, with Uthodern and Nicodranas both floated as possible destinations. Caleb turns back to face Essek, seeming very much like he wants to say something; but whatever the thought is, the human bites it back before it reaches his lips. Instead, he takes an appraising look over Essek’s face and the partially-healed state of his various injuries.

“You cannot be comfortable, with all of that stuff in your eye. I can do something about that. Here.” He shifts, settling Essek back into a more supine position, and produces a handkerchief from his pocket. He wets it with a waterskin pulled from his belt and wrings a few drops over the crusted mess of gore plastered across Essek’s face.

Essek watches Caleb languidly through the lashes of his usable eye. He has unquestionably just endured the worst day of his entire life: his title, his Den, the respect of his Queen, everything he’s worked towards for the past half-century, crumbled to dust in an instant. Adding injury to insult, he barely survived the two separate ambushes set by his former colleagues long enough to deliver himself as a warning to possibly the only people who might avert the impending apocalypse. In the past half hour, he has been repeatedly (and very painfully) jolted to and from the brink of death like a child’s yo-yo. And yet...

And yet, seeing this human’s face—this foreigner, who, not so long ago, he might have imprisoned or killed as “Empire scum” without a second thought—the tender studiousness of Caleb Widogast’s expression, as he gently dabs at Essek’s eyelid with a damp cloth... Essek finds himself strangely at peace with it all. (A distant voice of reason points out that he is likely in shock, given his recent physical trauma, and as such may not be thinking clearly; but that awareness alone is not enough to disturb the thick haze of tranquility.)

The former Shadowhand is adrift in the seas of Chaos, torn away from everything he knew, everything he thought he understood. But who better to navigate such seas, than the most audacious pack of brigands in all of Exandria? Chaos seems to be their natural habitat. If Caleb has adapted to it, Essek must learn to do the same.

Essek is still quite lightheaded, lying in the other wizard’s arms; he suspects he lost more blood in those last few minutes than he’d had in his body to begin with. (Healing magic is an invaluable gift, but it can be more than a little horrifying if one thinks on it too long.) He’s lost the thread of the ongoing conversation between the members of the Mighty Nein, but since no one seems to be addressing him directly, he doesn’t bother trying to pick it up again. His body is so leaden with exhaustion that when Caleb’s familiar appears, purring and rubbing against his arm, he can barely lift a hand to pet it.

Caleb asks Essek a question that he doesn’t quite catch, but the drow still replies with a distant “hmm” of acknowledgement. Caleb pats his cheek, then, and repeats the question, much closer to Essek’s face.

“Essek. Can you open your eye, now?”

It’s difficult, but Essek does find the strength to drag his eyelids open. His vision is still blurry, especially on the right side, but he is rewarded with the sight of Caleb’s pale blue eyes crinkling into a smile. 

“Heyyy, look at that! You’ll be okay, _ja_. You’ll be all right.”

Caleb combs his fingers through Essek’s hair a few times; Essek would like him to keep doing that, but finds he lacks the energy to communicate such. Instead, Essek gently rubs between the cat’s ears and admires the way the light shines through Caleb’s eyelashes, catching the color so that they glow like little embers. He has freckles even on his lips, Essek realizes. He’d never noticed that before.


	2. Chapter 2

“...Oh, _ja_ , good point. Essek, what do you know of the Arcana Pansophical? Have you ever heard of a wizard named Yussa Errenis?” Caleb pats Essek’s face when he gives no response. “...Essek?”

The Dynasty wizard lies utterly slack in Caleb’s lap, a stray curl of hair clinging damply to his now-clean cheek. There’s still a bloodless, washed-out pallor to his face, but there is no question this time that he is breathing; his chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of sleep.

“Aww,” Jester peeks over the edge of the table, resting her chin on her hands. “You don’t have to wake him up, he looks so comfortable there.”

Nott leans close, squinting. “Hmmmmmm. I heard elves don’t _need_ sleep ever, they just meditate or something every night and they’re fine. Drows are elves, right? Is he faking?” She pokes Essek’s face with a long goblin claw; his head flops limply with the pressure.

“Nott, you don’t have to—“

“HAH!” Nott claps, stomps, and shouts at the top of her lungs all at once. “HEY ESSEK!!!” 

He doesn’t even twitch. Nott cocks her head. “Nope, nothin’. Huh.”

Caduceus gently nudges her away from the unconscious drow. “You should really just let him rest. He’s had a rough day.”

Caleb meets the cleric’s eyes, worried. “She has a point, though; elves do not normally need sleep. Could there be something more wrong with him? Some poison, a curse?”

Caduceus shrugs. “I dunno, I think anybody’d need a nap after what he’s just been through. Heck, _I_ kinda need a nap now, and I wasn’t even on the bad end of all that.”

Jester tilts her head. “Are you tapped, Caduceus? Do you want me to try healing him, too?”

Caduceus smiles. “Sure, if you wanna give it a try. He’d probably appreciate that.”

The tiefling steps daintily around the group and kneels down in the space Caduceus makes for her. Touching Essek’s shoulder, she says a quick prayer to the Traveler, and a green-sleeved echo of her own hand rises briefly from her arm, channeling divine magic into the sleeping body.

The worst of Essek’s remaining wounds grow smaller, with a few sealing completely. After a certain point, though, the healing effect seems to drop off sharply and slow to a crawl, leaving many injuries untouched. The wizard himself remains deep in slumber, with no change in the gentle ebb and flow of his breathing.

Jester purses her lips. “Okay okay, I’m going to try one more, here we go.” Another surge of divine energy; this time it barely does anything at all. Just the edges of one or two wounds begin to knit together, very slowly. Jester frowns.

“Hey Traveler, what gives? Is there something blocking you from here, or is there like, something extra weird going on with this guy?”

The familiar cloaked presence fades in over the tiefling’s shoulder, answering in a soft voice. “Healing magic is fueled by energies beyond your plane, but it still relies on materials within the body to rebuild what has been damaged. If those reserves are exhausted, the magic can’t rebuild in one place without harming another, so it stops.”

“You know what, I feel like I learned something about that in monk training,” Beau says, after Jester has relayed the Traveler’s reply. “Like, if you go too long without rest, or just push yourself way too hard in a short time, it can like, deplete the body’s resources or whatever and make it harder to recover from stuff. Sleep is important, yo.”

Caleb nods, but his mouth still sets into a thin line of worry as he gazes down on Essek’s sleep-softened face. Caduceus lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Just give him some time. Maybe it’s nice to sleep once in a while, when you’re not used to doing it all the time.”

———

When Yussa Errenis received Jester’s message requesting safe harbor for “a really cool wizard guy, who can float, and like, do fancy time stuff,” the arcanist made some inferences and added thick blackout curtains to the guest quarters for the comfort of his soon-to-be charge. Still, he failed to anticipate the tattered, bloodstained form draped in Caduceus’s lanky arms.

“...This... is your friend, whom you spoke of?” Yussa frowns. “Do you need a healing potion?” 

“Well, it probably wouldn’t hurt to restock.” Caduceus rumbles. “He’s actually doing a lot better than he was, though. Really just needs a safe place to sleep it off, at this point.”

“Hmm.” The older elf still looks skeptical. He’d been intrigued to meet a practitioner of the peculiar Kryn school of magic, but if the drow’s appearance is any indication, it may be several days before Yussa can get a proper introduction. With an easy wave of his hand, he Prestidigitates the dried and still-drying bloodstains out of his guest’s clothing; Essek looks less the part of a grisly murder victim, now, but the remaining cuts and bruises are all the more stark without the stains to cover them.

Yussa sighs and beckons to the group. “This way.”

He leads the Mighty Nein down the stairs to a room they haven’t seen before: a spacious bedchamber, finely decorated, furnished with a four-poster bed, a small table, and a few chairs. As they enter, Yussa speaks a few arcane words and gestures at the table; it grows a foot or two taller, and its surface stretches to a length that can accommodate a medium-sized body laid prone. Yussa motions for Caduceus to lay Essek on the table, and asks Wensforth to fetch some bandages.

All told, it doesn’t take too long to dress Essek’s remaining wounds; as grave as the damage had been, the clerics’ magic brought him a significant way towards recovery. While Caduceus and Wensforth tend to Essek’s body, Jester busies herself with Mending cantrips on his discarded clothing, humming quietly to herself. 

Caleb helps Caduceus tuck Essek into the bed, when the firbolg carries him over. It’s strange to see the former Shadowhand without his cloak and mantle; he seems smaller without it, vulnerable and delicate. The clerics have left most of his jewelry on him, wherever it didn’t interfere with the bandages; about a third of it is enchanted in some way or other, according to Caleb’s Detect Magic, and they didn’t want to disrupt anything that may be helpful. Essek’s color is better than it was when they found him, but the paleness lingering in his lips still grips Caleb’s chest with concern, as does the slight crackle that occasionally rattles his breath. The Empire wizard will readily admit he doesn’t know what is a healthy temperature for a drow, but he’s sure that Essek’s is too low—his skin is a little cooler than Jester’s, still. Caleb summons his cat to curl up and purr next to the sleeping form, laying only his head and one paw on Essek’s stomach to avoid disturbing any wounds. 

Yussa offers one other guest room to anyone who wishes to stay and watch over their friend during his recovery; if more rooms are desired, there are plenty of fine inns around the Open Quay. After some discussion, Caleb and Caduceus opt to stay at the tower, while the others return to the Lavish Chateau for lodging.

The master of the house leaves his familiar (currently in her favored form as a golden-scaled snake) coiled around a bedpost in the guestroom, to monitor any changes in the dunamancer’s condition. Every few hours, Yussa takes a moment to look in through her eyes; very little changes in the scene, from one glance to the next. The drow sleeps like a stone, unmoving; the red-haired human sits in a dining chair he has pulled up next to the bed, sometimes reading, sometimes writing. The cat familiar changes position atop the covers, sprawled then curled then sprawled again on one side or the other, but always in some contact with the sleeping form. The firbolg may actually be the most active of the bunch; though he’ll spend hours at a time meditating on the floor, he leaves the room several hours before dinner and only returns to help Wensforth bring in a tray of food. He leaves again some time past dusk, presumably to retire to the other guest chambers. The human and his cat stay put. 

In the small hours of the night, Yussa’s eyes are feeling the strain of a day spent balancing, adjusting, and rebalancing arcane equations. He removes his reading glasses to rub at his eyebrows, and checks in one more time on his convalescing guest. No change there, as expected. However, his snake notes that Caleb Widogast has opted to sleep in the chair next to the bed, rather than make use of the room that was so generously prepared for him.

Yussa bids his familiar to slither down from her bedpost vantage, traverse the blankets, and flick her tongue in Caleb’s face. The dozing human sniffs and rubs his nose for a moment as if he might sneeze, but ultimately settles back to sleep, cushioning his head with an arm slung across the back of the chair. Yussa sighs and stands up from his desk.

The elder mage has his doors attuned to open silently only for himself; anyone else would produce a loud creak, entering the guestroom unannounced. He doesn’t snuff the room’s magical lamplight completely, but lowers it to the dim glow of a dying ember. With a complicated flourish, he gestures toward the chair next to the bed.

Caleb startles awake as the furniture shifts beneath him; he finds his feet lifted from under him to rest on the seat of a plush chaise lounge, as the chair-back behind him shrinks into a cushioned arm. Yussa stares at him with an intense but unreadable expression, standing just behind the back of the now-couch. A wordless moment hangs between them; Yussa drops a blanket unceremoniously on Caleb’s head. By the time the human has disentangled himself, Yussa has already swept out of the room, silent as a ghost.

The elven wizard ascends the stairs to his meditation chamber, praying that the gods may deliver him from the foolishness of lovesick young adventurers.

———

They let Essek sleep for the next two days without interruption. By the morning of day three, though, several of the party are getting anxious about what Tharizdun’s cultists might be plotting while they sit around waiting. Beau points out that Essek may have important information beyond what he managed to tell them at the Xhorhaus; Caduceus concedes that they might need to wake him just to make sure he gets enough nutrition and fluids to finish healing.

Even after 62 hours of rest, waking Essek is a challenge. Caleb calls his name, pats his face, shakes his shoulder, to no effect. Beau, Nott, Yasha, and Jester yell and clap and generally raise a ruckus—Jester even uses Thaumaturgy to create a loud crack of thunder—but it fails to raise the slightest twitch from Essek. Caduceus dunks a rag in a glass of water and squeezes a cool dribble over his forehead; Essek’s eyes flicker beneath their lids, but his face relaxes again as soon as the water stops. Seeing this, Beau takes the entire glass and dumps it onto his face.

The drow snaps upright with a sharp gasp, hand outstretched and crackling with building magic. (Near the door, Yussa reflexively prepares a counterspell, eyes narrowing.) Caleb lunges into the line of fire and claps Essek’s glowing hand between his own. “Hey-hey-hey, it is me, it’s us, you are safe—” Essek’s shouted incantation trails off in bewilderment as he takes in his surroundings, blinking.

“Hey, sorry about that.” Caduceus gives him a wave and a friendly smile. “You’ve been asleep for a few days now, and I’ll be happy to let you get back to it if you need to, but you’re gonna want to eat something first.” Fjord clears his throat; Caduceus waves him off and continues. “Also, these guys have some stuff they want to ask you. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, though. The important thing is we’ve got soup for you.”

“Sure, thank you.” Essek winces and slowly curls into a hunch, hands withdrawing to his gauze-wrapped ribs. He blows out a long, pained breath. “Ohhh, I should not have done that. Ohh-kay.”

Caleb immediately lends a hand to help the aching drow into a more comfortable position. As Essek settles back, he puts his hand into the sopping mess of the pillow behind him. The furrow in his brow deepens with confusion.

“Yeah, does somebody wanna get him a towel? Beau?” Caduceus asks over his shoulder.

Beau makes a face. “Man, I don’t know where the towels are in this place. Ask Yussa.”

The golden-robed wizard steps forward with a long-suffering sigh, and makes a simple gesture that draws the water out of the linens and off of his newly-awakened guest, to dissipate in a puff of cool mist. “Yes, hello, by the way. My name is Yussa Errenis, and you are in my home.”

Essek is instantly on his guard, slipping into a mask of pleasantry. “Then I am most grateful for your hospitality, Master Errenis. May I ask where this home resides, geographically speaking?”

“Certainly; we are in Nicodranas.” Yussa’s demeanor is as impenetrably polite as Essek’s. “Your friends requested my aid to protect you, as you seem to have powerful enemies on both sides of the current political conflict, and I bear no affiliation with either. We have been collaborating for some time to address the more... _unnatural_ elements that seem to be fueling the violence.”

Essek relaxes slightly. Beau chimes in: “Yeah, plus he owed us one after we rescued him from the Happy Fun Ball.”

Essek _just_ manages to disguise a snort of laughter as a cough, thanks to more than a century of practice in subterfuge and courtly etiquette. Still, his smile grows subtly wider. “...Oh?”

Yussa pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Please_ stop calling it that, it is not—“ He huffs. “I found myself waylaid in the abode of an _extremely ancient and powerful_ mage, built during _the Age of_ _Arcana_ , which was guarded by golems _specifically designed_ to capture skilled practitioners of magic. The Mighty Nein came to my aid. Which I do appreciate.”

“Yeah, we’ll tell you all about it sometime,” says Caduceus. “Here.” The firbolg hands Essek a bread roll and a large, wide-mouthed mug full of some kind of smooth yellow soup. The savory aroma of it is complimented by a note of spicy sweetness; Essek’s stomach awakens with ferocious interest.

“...Should there be a spoon?” The former Shadowhand asks, lingering grogginess showing in his face as he examines what’s been handed to him.

“Nah, you just kinda dip the bread in it and then drink the rest once that’s gone,” Caduceus explains. “My dad always used to make this for us when we got sick. It’s good stuff.”

Essek shrugs and does his best to master the unfamiliar custom without dripping soup on himself. (Not that there is much to stain if he fails; he finds he’s wearing bandages and an undergarment under the blankets, and little else.) But, the bread is dense and chewy, just right to soak up the liquid without turning to mush. The soup itself carries a pronounced mushroom flavor, along with... a hint of citrus? A mild, slightly gingery blend of spices, enough to add interest without upsetting an already off-kilter stomach. 

Essek finds his desire to properly savor a good meal (and to maintain a semblance of civilized decorum) is somewhat outmatched by the ravenous need of a body that has gone several days without eating. He catches himself licking at the inside of the mug after it’s been drained.

Caduceus grins. “Heh. You’ll wanna let that sit for a sec so your stomach can remember how to deal with food, but we’ve got more later, if you like.”

“Anywaaaay,” singsongs Jester, “We’ve got some questions, like about what you found out about the mole, and how they stole the Beacon and everything, aaaaaand—You know, _I_ trust you and everything, I always knew you were a good guy, but Fjord and some of the others just want to be extra careful, you know? So we were wondering if you would be okay if we put up a little Zone of Truth, just to be, like, super sure. Is that okay?”

Essek looks a little crestfallen, staring wearily into his mug for a moment before answering. Just as he opens his mouth, Caleb puts a hand on his knee.

“I will also be submitting to the truth spell.” Caleb’s gaze meets Essek’s eyes, steady and unflinching. “Anything you want to ask me—about the Empire, about this group, about myself—you are guaranteed a full and honest answer, to the best of my ability.”

As guarded as Essek’s manner normally is, an unmistakable spark of interest lights in his eyes. His gaze flickers to Yussa for an instant; then he nods, handing the empty mug back to Caduceus.

“I will do this,” he says, steepling his fingers, “On the condition that our host excuses himself from the room for the duration of the spell.”

Essek bows his head towards Yussa. “I hope I am not overstepping my bounds, in this request. I am very grateful for the aid you have given, and it speaks very highly of your merit, that you have earned the trust of this group. But, you are surely aware of the kinds of arcane secrets that I guard, and one of your experience and wisdom must know that if the right questions are asked, an answer withheld can be as good as an answer given.”

The elder mage sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s fine with me. Let me know when you have completed your business.” Yussa departs with a slightly flippant bow, and the group settle themselves into a more conversationally comfortable arrangement around Essek’s bed. 

Jester helms the casting of the Zone of Truth; right away, Caleb, Caduceus, Essek, and Yasha submit themselves to the spell’s effect. Their attunement is tangible to everyone within the Zone, like threads vibrating in a spiderweb. Nott and Fjord try to resist the spell, but ultimately find themselves bound by the strength of the magic. Beau and Jester both succeed in resisting, on a whim. They hi-five, grinning; but in the face of the unimpressed stares from the rest of the group, they sigh and let the magic take hold of them as well.

Essek rests his back against the headboard, golden eyes calmly scanning from one member of the Mighty Nein to the next. “So, what would you like to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the lovely kudos and comments, i am but a humble cicada who emerges once every seventeen years to scream, u guys are very sweet 🥰


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i was 2/3 done with this chapter when e91 dropped... feels a little redundant now but wygd ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Asked about the reach of Tharizdun’s cult within the Dynasty, Essek repeats the same list of names he gave Caleb on the floor of the Xhorhaus, days ago now. He also explains what he’s pieced together about the theft of the Beacons—he’s still missing confirmation on many of the details, but given the political positions of certain cultists, it’s not hard to guess where strings may have been pulled to subvert the protection of such artifacts.

Fjord, trying to hide the sheepishness in his voice, asks: “Just to clarify, you yourself aren’t a follower of the Angel of Irons, are you? You’re not secretly working with the Cerberus Assembly to bring down the Dynasty, or any of that?”

Essek rolls his eyes. “I was not involved in the theft of either of the stolen Beacons. I serve my Dynasty and my Queen to the best of my ability, and bear no allegiance to any outside state or order... But the war with the Empire has had a terrible cost for both sides, and the sooner a peace can be brokered the better, though I don’t believe that will be possible until the other Beacon is recovered. Additionally, I am not, and never have been, servant to any ‘Angel of Irons’, nor Tharizdun, nor any deity of any kind.”

The dunamancer steeples his fingers. “I do not worship the Luxon so fervently as many within the Dynasty do; I honestly cannot even say I believe it exists. The very concept of the Luxon is little more than story and conjecture from the nature of the Beacons, and if one is willing to look past the dogma of the Church, there are plenty of explanations that seem more likely than some silent, supermassive meta-god. Even if it does exist, there are no reports that that the Luxon has ever communicated directly with anyone in the entire history of Exandria; this is part of why the claims of the cultists duped by Tharizdun are so patently ridiculous.” He turns back to Fjord, teeth flashing in a sardonic smile. “Does that answer satisfy?”

Fjord’s nod is mirrored throughout the group. “Yes, that seems... comprehensive.” (Essek notes the tension easing from Caleb’s shoulders, once the former Shadowhand has passed the test; his chest aches to think that Caleb was still afraid of him on any level, but Essek would surely be a hypocrite to judge him for it.)

“Good.” Essek’s smile widens. “I am allowed to ask my own questions in this arrangement, am I not? I would like to ask the same statement from each of you, if you would humor me; your allegiances to Dynasty and Empire, your commitment to peace, your opposition to the Angel of Irons and Tharizdun in all its forms. If you don’t mind.”

Caduceus and Fjord start the circle off, easily confirming their faithfulness to the Wildmother, rejection of Tharizdun in its many guises, and neutrality towards the warring nations that neither of them had set foot in before the previous year. After Fjord has spoken, eyes turn to Yasha, next in the order at his left; she starts to speak but breaks off, looking troubled. Jester gives the barbarian’s broad, calloused hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Yasha.”

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Yasha continues. “I... traveled with the cult, for a while. I worked for them. I did not know it was this Tharizdun, I just did what Obann told me to do.”

“Because you were mind controlled,” Beau reproaches. “That’s important. It wasn’t your fault.”

Yasha sighs. “I... yes. There was a thing, on my neck, I guess, I couldn’t see it. I—“ She closes her eyes, feeling the hum of the truth spell in her bones, listening carefully for any change—any sign that it may stop her as she speaks. “I did not choose to kill the people he made me kill.” 

Her mismatched eyes open, a little misty with surprise and relief. “I did not want to do it. He told me to do things and I could not stop myself from doing them, but I did not want to do it.” She smiles crookedly and sniffles once, rubbing the water from her cheeks. 

Jester hugs her from the side, blue cheek smushed against the pale, brawny shoulder. “See? You said it inside the zone of truth, so it has to be true. And anyway you killed that guy for good and he’s never coming back, so you don’t even have to worry about it anymore! You’re safe now!”

Yasha chuckles. “I did kill him pretty good, didn’t I? And I will kill anyone else that I find out is working for the Angel of Irons or the Chained Whatever-He-Is, unless one of you gives me a really good reason not to.” She wraps an arm around Jester, returning the hug.

Essek can’t help but smile at the warmth of their display, but he must insist on being thorough. He clears his throat. “...And the war?”

Yasha waves a hand dismissively. “Empire, Dynasty, I am from Xhorhas but I don’t really care. If they’re not having a good time fighting each other then they should probably stop, I guess.”

Jester is next. Like Caduceus and Fjord before her, she easily states her opposition to the war (though she’s inclined to side with the Dynasty, given “what those shitty wizard guys in the Empire did to Caleb”—Essek assumes she’s referencing the scars he’s glimpsed on Caleb’s hands. He’s seen the same pattern on captured Scourgers in the past.)

Essek glances at the wizard, sitting nearest to him on the couch next to the bed, and realizes that Caleb has been watching him. His expression seems neutral but for the barest shade of _something_ around the eyes—echoes of some remembered pain? Essek acknowledges the human’s gaze with a gentle nod before turning back to Jester, who is still delivering her statement.

The tiefling affirms her hostility towards Tharizdun, and reiterates her devotion to this “Traveler” entity; Essek makes a note to think of some follow-up questions that might expose another false guise of the Chained Oblivion, just in case.

The circle reaches Beauregard, after Jester. The monk uncrosses her arms. “So, I forget if I told you before, but you might have figured out by now that I work for the Cobalt Soul.” She gestures to her robes, and Essek notices that her light blue initiate’s sash has been traded for the subtle dove-gray of a full-fledged Expositor. 

“They’re not _just_ an Empire thing, but they are kinda _centered_ on the Empire, and I think they can help deal with like, the corruption with the Cerberus Assembly and the King, and whoever else is doing shady shit up there. But the deal is, I know _they’re_ a power structure too, which means _they’re_ not necessarily immune to corruption either, and basically if they tell me to do something I think is wrong, they can go fuck themselves.”

She pauses, reflecting on the original question and whether or not she actually answered it. “So, I dunno, there’s people in the Empire who I think can help, but we’ve met plenty of decent, innocent people on both sides, and it’s just really shitty that thousands of people think they have to kill each other over the machinations of a few powerful assholes. I want to stop the fighting more than I want any one side to win.” Beau halts one more time, trying to remember the last part of the question. “Oh yeah, and fuck Tharizdun. And the ‘Angel of Irons’ and whatever else he wants to call himself. Screw him.”

Essek nods his approval, and turns his gaze upon Nott, the last in the circle before Caleb. The human next to her is no longer looking at Essek, his eyes now resting on his own scarred hands with his fingers laced together. He seems thoughtful, solemn—he shows none of the telltale stress that should mark an Empire operative about to be exposed. It’s _almost_ enough to quiet the mothlike fluttering of anxiety in the former Shadowhand’s stomach. The paranoia that has been a cornerstone of Essek’s entire career up to this point can’t quite fathom that it may not be needed here.

Essek realizes with a start that he hasn’t been listening to Nott’s statement of her allegiances. Something about being a citizen of the Empire but wanting peace, wanting safety for her husband and child, and then one last thing that hadn’t made sense...

“Sorry, say that one more time?” His eyebrows furrow at the little goblin, who regards him with large, catlike eyes.

“I’m actually a halfling,” she repeats, slower this time. Essek assumes this is one of her odd jokes, for a moment—but no, he can still feel her attunement to the Zone of Truth. She should be unable to speak a falsehood, even in jest.

“...You mean you are... consecuted?” 

It’s not unheard of, for a consecuted soul to be reborn into a different race or culture—it’s part of the reason so much diversity exists within Rosohna. A reawakened soul does not lose the memories and bonds it has formed over the course of its most recent childhood, so those who find themselves in such situations often bring their new families home with them. But... consecution itself is still a high honor, reserved for the elite and those who have performed an exceptional service for the Dynasty. It’s hard to reconcile that with the, politely put, _volitile_ personality of the woman before him.

Nott shakes her head. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s not it—I was never a _baby_ goblin, or anything. I was a halfling, and then I died, and then I was a full-grown adult goblin. This creepy old woman did something to me, it’s a whole thing.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I just thought I’d put that out there if we’re airing all our ~secrets~, and everything.”

“I... Okay, very well.” Essek has no idea how to process this information.

“Oh, and also fuck Tharizdun. I don’t really _do_ the whole god thing, so I’m probably safe on that front, as long as I don’t get mind-controlled.”

“...Very good.” Essek gives her a cursory nod, but he has already turned his attention back to the fiery-haired man sitting beside him, still seemingly lost in thought.

“Caleb?”

The human starts at the sound of his name. “Y-Yes.” He sits up a little straighter. “I have been fairly forthright with you and your queen, regarding my intentions, but I don’t mind saying it again to eliminate any doubts.”

Caleb takes a deep breath and begins. “As I have mentioned to you before, I once trained to be a Vollstrecker, a Scourger. I did terrible things, in the name of the Empire. I tortured, I killed, without question for whether the people I harmed were guilty or innocent. I did things for which I believe I can never, _should_ never, be forgiven.” The human continues to stare at his own hands as he speaks of his deeds, unable to bring himself to look Essek in the eye.

“But I now understand that those who taught me are a blight upon my country. The Cerberus Assembly, the king—I do not know how deep the cancer grows, but I know that it must be rooted out. I care for the common people of the Empire—as I have come to care for the people of the Dynasty—“ (the earnestness in Caleb’s smoke-blue eyes, meeting Essek’s as he says this, catches the drow off-balance for a moment) “—and I believe that ending this war is the only hope for both of our peoples. We must put aside our petty squabbles to prevent Tharizdun from destroying us all.”

Essek nods, a slight smile creeping across his lips. He tries not to look as relieved as he feels, with his lingering doubts about Caleb finally put to rest. “Well said,” he approves.

Beau nods at Essek with a cocky tilt of her chin. “All right, if everybody’s cool, I have a second question for you. You always said that we owed you favors for all those times you teleported us places. What kind of favors did you have in mind?”

Essek sighs. “Given that you have saved my life, I consider you absolved of such debts.”

“Sure, but like, what _would_ you have asked, if shit hadn’t hit the fan here first? I’m curious,” the Expositor presses.

Essek hesitates for a moment, stroking a finger over his upper lip as he thinks. “Retrieving the remaining Beacon felt like a steep price for a few spells and a couple of shortcuts to obscure locations across the continent—I was reluctant to ask such a thing, until you volunteered it freely, but I would have considered it debt repaid in full if you had achieved it. Aside from that...” The former Shadowhand makes a vague gesture, looking a little embarrassed. 

“...I’m sure I would have come up with something, eventually. Aid with dunamantic experiments, perhaps, or if I was in need of some rare spell component that I could not obtain by normal means...” He chuckles. “Given how you handled that foreman that Waccoh was always complaining about, I may have asked you to cause some mild havoc for some political rivals, individuals stoking the flames of war.” He smirks, fondly. “Truly, though, I did not have anything specific in mind at the time. I just... did not want to be forgotten.”

Caduceus gives a sage nod. “That’s fair.” The rest of the Nein seem to agree, but Caleb looks preoccupied—he nods slightly in what may just be unconscious imitation of those around him, staring intensely into nothing with a troubled expression.

“...Does that answer satisfy?” Essek asks Caleb directly, peering curiously at his face and shifting a hand over the patch of mattress that the human is staring through.

“Hm? Ah—Yes, that is—that is more than satisfactory. You really have been... very generous to us, through all of this.” There’s something strange in the tone of his voice, and when he meets Essek’s eyes his expression carries a—sadness? guilt? pity? that Essek doesn’t understand. Worry of a different sort gnaws at the space below the former Shadowhand’s ribs.

“Is there something else you want to ask me?” Once again Essek seems to direct his question solely at Caleb, not quite facing the rest of the group.

Caleb freezes. “Not—not right now, I think. ...Another time, maybe. It is your turn for a question now though, _ja_? You get to ask us something else.”

Essek comes very close to just outright asking Caleb what’s bothering him, but holds back; the Zone of Truth won’t keep him from evading a question, if he really doesn’t want to talk. Instead, he sits back up and addresses the rest of the party.

“Actually, I do have one other question for you all.” Amber eyes sweep over the group once more, coolly scrutinizing each of the Mighty Nein in turn. “What, exactly, have you been doing since you left Rosohna? I’ve had no word from you for _months._ ”

Essek realizes the sharpness in his tone as soon as the words have left his lips. He backpedals in a rush. “Sorry, I—It is only, there was a period of several weeks where I thought you all dead.” He says it in a light, airy tone, but the smile that might pass it off as a humorous anecdote is strained into a wince. 

The Nein exchange looks of confusion; Essek feels compelled to explain. “I tried to contact you nearly a month after you left, with information on how the Caedogeist was defeated the last time she was slain—But no reply came from _any_ of you, which seemed... _uncharacteristic._ ” He gives a significant look towards Jester. “...And then the scries all came up empty...” Essek rakes his fingers through his silver-white hair, pushing down the memory of the quiet, hollow grief that had permeated those weeks. He’d felt he didn’t even have the right to mourn them—he’d hardly even known them, not really—but the cold weight of loss had still hung heavy in his chest. He takes a breath, grounding himself back in the present moment.

“I believed the worst, until an operative spotted you in Zadash more than two weeks later. After that point I assumed you had just taken some kind of security measures that had blocked me out. Perfectly sensible, and well within your rights.” Again he forces an accommodating smile, but it does a poor job of hiding the hurt behind it, especially with the truth spell’s threads of subconscious connection thrumming between all of their minds.

“Oh nooo, Essek! You were _worried_ about us?” Jester cries out, sympathetically distressed. “See you guys, this is why I keep saying I should be messaging people whenever I have the spells left over, otherwise they might think we are _dead,_ that would be so sad!” She gives the foot of the bed a comforting pat, too far away to reach any part of Essek’s actual person. “Don’t worry, from now on whenever we are gone, I will message you _every_ day so that you know we are okay, okay?”

Essek pinches the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh. “ _Please_ don’t, that is absolutely not necessary—“

“It is kind of sweet that you missed us though, right?” Jester puts her hands under her chin. “You pretend you don’t like us sometimes, but you really do, I can tell.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Nott remarks. “He definitely likes Caleb, he’s never pretended anything about that.”

A mischievous grin spreads across Jester’s face, filling Essek with a cold dread. He’s sure that not even the most advanced dunamancy could help him navigate the sheer unfettered chaos of Jester Lavorre—there must be too many timelines, too many wildly differing possibilities as to what she may say or do from one moment to the next—

“ _Esseeeek,_ ” she singsongs, “Are you in love with Cayleeeeeeeb~?”

The question hits him like a blow to the stomach. Human and drow exchange a fleeting look of mutual panic before Caleb cuts in: “You do not have to answer that.”

“But even if you don’t, we’ll kiiiiiind of know it means that you are,” Jester says out of the side of her mouth, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Essek rubs his temples with thumb and middle finger, hoping his hand is enough to hide the flush he can feel rising in his cheeks. (It isn’t.) He glances sidelong again at Caleb, trying to gauge what response would be the least mortifying to him; the look is not reciprocated, this time. The man looks like he wants to crawl into a pocket dimension and close the door behind him.

“I am not obligated to answer that,” Essek deflects primly, repairing his fractured composure. “Such matters are more appropriate for a private conversation.”

“You’re not saying you _don’t_ have a crush on him though, ehhh?” Jester needles.

“I’m not saying _anything._ ” Essek adopts the inscrutable mask that had been his daily armor as Shadowhand.

“You at least _like_ him though, right?” Apparently Beau has joined the sudden inquest into Essek’s inner psyche.

The drow rolls his eyes. “Of course I _like_ him,” he huffs. How had that come into question? Was that why Caleb had been acting so strangely? “He’s—“ Essek catches himself and turns to face Caleb directly, lightly touching his shoulder. “ _You_ are witty, you are brilliant and fascinating, there are plenty of things I admire about you—“

“Including that ass, though, right?” Nott gives him a salacious wink.

Essek wheezes as if he’s been punched, and spends nearly half a minute coughing—it seems his lungs have not fully cleared out in his two days of rest. The time it buys him is still not enough to come up with an appropriate response; years of practicing courtly etiquette have left him completely unprepared for the conversational barrage that is the Mighty Nein. He casts another glance at Caleb, the only lifeline who might have both the experience and the mercy to extract him from this interrogation—and the pit of his stomach grows cold.

Far from looking embarrassed, or even amused by his friends’ antics, the human has gone very still, and in his downcast eyes, Essek sees—remorse. Sorrow. The former Shadowhand’s heart drops.

“...Caleb?”

Caleb sighs, wearily, and speaks in a quiet, husky voice. “I suppose I suspected all along, on a certain level. But I could not allow myself to believe that anyone would be so generous, or so patient with our bullshit, if they were not trying to manipulate us.” Essek’s nearest hand has dropped to the bed, and Caleb gently covers it with his own rough palm. “I am so sorry, _Herr_ Essek,” he says. “I fear I have misused you terribly.”

———

Essek scolds himself internally. _Of course._ He should have known better than to show such overt interest in someone he’d held so much political leverage over. Of course Caleb would flirt back in self-defense—who knows how someone of Essek’s station could have retaliated if the human had spurned him? With the Dynasty’s entire legal system at his back, he could have easily had any of them locked up or executed on a whim. The previous Shadowhand certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to do so. Of course Caleb would do whatever it took to protect his friends, regardless of his own feelings.

The silence hangs; Essek exhales. No point in trying to delay the inevitable. “...In what way, exactly?”

Caleb keeps his eyes averted, mechanically massaging one of his own hands with the other. “I... have long wanted to undo the terrible wrongs I committed while training under Trent Ikithon. As soon as I began to have an inkling towards the concept of your dunamancy, I thought that must be the key, and I did not care what I had to do to get it—whether through lies, theft, or whatever ‘favors’ might be asked of me.”

The Empire wizard’s shoulders have drawn into a hunch. “I think part of me was so eager to assume you were grooming us for some sinister purpose, because it made it easier for me to justify using you in return. But I cannot say for sure that knowing your interest was genuine would have changed anything, or if I would have deemed it an acceptable cost to further my own goals.”

Caleb’s eyes squeeze shut, expression pinching in bitter self-disgust. “I have told myself that I am better than the men that trained me, that I have nobler intentions than them, but deep down I may be just the same... I have continued to perpetuate the very evils that I claim to oppose.” He kneads at the scar-crossed skin of his forearms, fingernails digging in to create small crescents of indentation.

Essek leans back against the headboard, processing, face set in weary resignation. A long moment passes before he speaks; his voice is quiet, but controlled. “...You truly have no feelings for me at all, then?”

Caleb seems thrown by the question. “I—Wh-why would that matter?”

“It matters a great deal, to me.” The former Shadowhand’s voice is smooth as silk, his face an impassive mask. “Say it outright, if you can.” Caleb feels those golden eyes raze into him like spotlights, exposing and illuminating every wretched inch of his soul.

Caleb bows his head. “I—” A mob of possible replies clamber in his mind, but the truth spell buzzes half of them into nothing, and the other half...

He lets out a rueful chuckle. “I tried very hard not to get attached.” Caleb rubs at his eyes, a little sheepish. “I suppose I did a poor job of it, in the end.”

Essek tilts his head playfully, wearing the most smug expression Caleb has ever seen on someone who was not a cat. “You don’t say.”

Caleb huffs and rolls his eyes. “I feel like that makes it _worse_ , though, doesn’t it? That I could be so—so _ruthless_ even towards someone I care about? What does that make me?” He begins to tug and knead more forcefully at the skin of his forearms, distorting the faintly geometric patterns that lattice them.

Essek shrugs, unfazed. “I do not judge you for this. Such things are not uncommon in my line of work. It becomes necessary to compartmentalize, sometimes.”

Caleb shakes his head vehemently. “You do not understand, this is a _pattern_ with me. Even with these ones!” He indicates the rest of the Mighty Nein with a sweep of the hand. “They showed me kindness and I used them as a shield, for as long as I could I refused to tell them of the danger I brought because I was so concerned with saving my own skin—“

Various noises of dissent spring all at once from the rest of the group; Beauregard’s “Caleb, we’ve been _over_ this—“ comes through especially clear.

But the human wizard is swept up in the whirling current of his own thoughts, barely registering their interruptions. “—and even before that! I can’t even say for sure whether Ikithon is responsible for imbuing me with such cruelty, or if he chose me because he saw it within me already! It was all so easy—with just the smallest spark of anger, a tiny seed of contempt, hurting people felt _powerful_ —and it was all the more righteous if we could do the same to our loved ones, to prove our loyalty through sacrifice—“ 

“ _Caleb._ ” Essek holds the human’s hand firmly, stilling it from the agitated clawing that had begun to draw small dots of blood from his forearms. Caleb looks up at him, eyes wild and rimmed with red.

“ _Please._ Please believe me when I tell you that I have no right to judge you for these things.” The drow’s voice is soft. 

“First of all, you had every right to distrust me, in the beginning; I was assigned to observe you, and to ingratiate myself with you all so that you would drop your guard and spill your secrets. You were not the only one with ulterior motives.” He strokes his thumb over the back of Caleb’s hand as he speaks.

“As for the rest... Please remember that when you first met me, I was involved in the torture of your friend’s husband.” He tilts his head towards Nott.

“Oh shit, that’s right!” the goblin starts, holding a hand over her mouth. “Fuck you for that, I guess? I dunno, there’s a war, shit happens.”

Essek sighs. “Since I was appointed Shadowhand, I have overseen more than my fair share of torture and execution. Guilty and innocent are interrogated in the same way; after all, you do not know which is which until it is over. Often not even then, I find.”

The drow hangs his head. “I told myself many times that such deeds were necessary to glean crucial information, even as it became clear that gentler methods were far more effective. I told myself that at least I was not as sadistic as my predecessor, and that if I stepped down someone worse would surely fill the position. And my recommendations to change the system that enacts such practices were—“ He huffs, biting the inside of his cheek in frustration.

“I am seen as a child by many of the court, on my first life with not even a hundred and twenty years under my belt. They think me naive. I have been told to keep my head down and ‘do my job’, and if I do well my ideas _might_ be taken seriously after another few centuries.” His voice simmers with bitterness.

“The worst of it, though, the part I am most ashamed of, is—“ Essek sighs, ghosting his fingertips down the length of Caleb’s scar-roughened forearm. “No one had to _hurt_ me, to ensure my compliance. No one had to cut me as they did you. I was not tortured, or force-fed angry propaganda, I was never even _threatened_ , particularly. I just... chose my own comfort above all else. For the distant promise of respect, and the resources to pursue my own interests in my spare time, that I might eventually make some groundbreaking discovery... As if that would change anything. As if anyone would care.”

He ducks his head a little lower, trying to catch Caleb’s still-downcast eyes. “ _You_ , on the other hand... I sold my soul for a silver, but you—you _walked away_. You have no idea how much I envy you the courage that must have taken—“

Caleb’s eyes are burning ice; his features twist into a snarl. “I did not _‘walk away’_ , it was not some noble choice that I made!” He grips Essek’s wrist harshly. “If I was going to grow some kind of moral backbone, I should have done so before I _burned my own parents alive_ in our family home. I should have chosen them over Trent Ikithon’s lies. But that is not the decision I made.”

A hush falls over the group as Caleb tries to steady his shaking breath, screwed-shut eyelids unable to keep the tears at bay. His voice comes out in a husky whisper.

“It was not a choice. I just... I just _broke_. I fell apart and spent eleven years drooling in an asylum. When I killed a man to escape that place, there was no _morality_ to it, it was just—fear, like an animal. And like an animal I lived for many years afterwards; hiding, stealing, with very little regard for anyone living but myself, until that one found me.” He nods towards Nott.

Caleb’s grip loosens from around Essek’s wrist, and he gently sandwiches the drow’s hand between his calloused palms. “There was no ‘courage’ in any of it; no altruism, no particular virtue... Really, it is only since I have been traveling with these people, that I have regained anything resembling a heart. And even that I resisted at every turn.”

Essek tentatively raises a hand toward Caleb’s face; when the human does not flinch away, he cups his palm against the pale, speckled cheek. “And yet,” he says softly, “here you are. Surrounded by people you love, who love you in return, fighting for peace—you scolded one of the two most powerful figures on the continent _to her face_ , and she _listened_ to you, because you were _right_... And you throw yourself into mortal peril daily, trying to save every life on this planet from the ravages of Tharizdun. You have looked your demons in the face and you spend every day trying to remedy the harm you caused. Do not tell me that is unworthy of respect.”

Caleb is quiet, taking that in, breath growing steadier, even though his eyes are still red and tearful. Essek leans in, resting his forehead against Caleb’s. “I want to do the same. I have nothing to hold me back, now—that thought is perhaps as thrilling as it is terrifying.” He smiles crookedly. “I want to do better, _be_ better... I’d like to come with you, if you’d have me.”

Caleb sighs, laying a palm along Essek’s jawline. He hesitates for an aching moment, searching for words and finding none. Finally, he closes the distance, finding Essek’s mouth with his own—tender, hungry, full to bursting with everything he doesn’t know how to say. Essek returns the kiss in kind, fierce and sweet, buoyant with a joy that feels it can stop time and make a plaything of gravity. Essek breaks away only so he can see Caleb’s face, revel in the wonder filling those eyes, blue as the breaking edge of dawn—

A loud wolf-whistle cuts through the moment—Nott grins and gives a saucy wink. Fjord and Yasha don’t quite know what to do with their faces, but Jester is clapping. “Welcome to the Mighty Nein,” says Beau, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Caleb’s face turns roughly the same color as his hair. Essek snorts and breaks into giggles; he hasn’t laughed like this since he was a child, probably. The two of them had quite forgotten the others were still in the room, caught up as they were in their own back-and-forth. Essek grins, giddy, rubbing Caleb’s shoulder until he can recover from the shock of the moment.

Caduceus beams serenely from the other side of the circle. “This was good. I feel like we’ve made a lot of progress today.”

“Yes, and you said there was more soup, Caduceus?” Nott asks. “I’m suddenly very hungry! I think I need to go the kitchen _right now_ and get some soup! You’re hungry too, aren’t you Jester?“

“I mean, I dunno, I just had some pastries like—“ 

“I think we should all go to the kitchen together! For soup!” Nott has pulled Jester to her feet and is pushing her towards the door. Fjord and Yasha have already taken Nott’s hint; they leave the room with awkwardly mumbled excuses. 

Caduceus waves from the doorframe. “Don’t worry, we’ll save some for you!” Nott ushers him out with a push to the back of his knee, the highest part of the firbolg she can easily reach.

Beau tousles Caleb’s hair before heading out; Nott herds her to the door as well. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’, take it easy,” the monk grumbles.

Her mission accomplished, Nott pauses in the doorway to throw Caleb a thumbs-up and a snaggletoothed grin. He somehow turns an even deeper shade of maroon.

———

Once they’re alone, Essek scoots over on the bed and pats the spot next to him, inviting Caleb to sit. Caleb feels a flutter of schoolboy awkwardness, climbing from the couch to the bed and gingerly draping an arm over Essek’s shoulders; but then Essek threads his arm around Caleb’s waist, laying his head against the human’s chest with a contented sigh, and it feels _right_ , somehow. Caleb notes with satisfaction that the drow’s skin is significantly warmer than it had been when they found him, and his color has regained its healthy vibrance. He lets his cheek rest on the crown of Essek’s head.

The silence between them is comfortable, with Frumpkin sprawled purring across both of their laps; Caleb almost doesn’t notice himself breaking it.

“You have risked so much for us, and sacrificed much as well, since you met us,” he murmurs, running his fingers through Essek’s pearl-white hair. “I do not know what drove you to put such faith in a pack of hooligans from enemy soil, but I am forever grateful that you did.”

Essek snorts. “Now now, it was not _entirely_ faith; I had plenty of legitimate reasons to trust you.” He turns a coy smile up towards Caleb. “I did quite a bit of scrying the first few weeks after you appeared, more than enough to confirm your stories checked out. And to be honest, it seemed very unlikely that the Empire would deliver something as powerful as a Beacon straight to the capitol with no terms or bargaining of any kind. From a tactical standpoint it just didn’t make sense, especially once it was confirmed that the artifact itself had not been sabotaged.”

Caleb nods, smirking a little, accepting the drow’s logic. He hadn’t meant to trigger an entire thesis defense with his comment, but he can’t help but be charmed by how much thought Essek had clearly put into it all.

“I will admit, though,” Essek chuckles, “you did make _quite_ the first impression. A human so brazenly addressing the Bright Queen in her own court, delivering a lost relic and a rousing speech that echoed opinions I myself had voiced about the war... All while covered in filth and wearing a harness like some kind of pack animal. I admit there was a moment I thought the whole scene was staged by one of my court rivals, to toy with me somehow.”

Caleb laughs. “Well, when you put it like that...” Gazing on his companion's face, the light of amusement in Essek’s honey-gold eyes is truly a sight to behold, as is the teasing curve of the smile on his lips, deep and lush as a dark wine. To think that he’d come so close to losing this, that he’d almost never known...

“Ah,” the human’s mind distracts itself from that painful train of thought with a reminder of something he’d meant to do. “I have—here, I have your chalk.” He fishes the thin blue stick out of his pocket and offers it to Essek. “You, ah... dropped it. Back at the house.”

Essek folds the chalk back into Caleb’s hand, mouth twisting into a wry shape. “Keep it,” he says. “Consider it a thank-you for saving my life.”

Caleb acquiesces with a nod and tucks the component back in his pocket. “How are you feeling, by the way? Two days ago you were a pincushion, that is not something everyone can recover from so quickly. Do you want the clerics to have another look at you?”

Essek shrugs. “Honestly, the fact that I am alive at all right now is fairly remarkable, given the circumstances.” He rubs a bandaged shoulder experimentally. “A few small aches and pains, but nothing urgent... Maybe a little tired, still. I could probably sleep another whole day if I put my mind to it.” He stretches, catlike, and nestles back into Caleb’s chest. “Would not say no to another round of that soup, as well...”

Caleb strokes the drow’s hair, overcome for a moment by the fond warmth blooming in his heart. “Would you like me to fetch you some? Caduceus did say there was more...”

“Oh, not right now,” Essek mumbles, hugging his other arm around Caleb. “It can wait. This is nice.” (Frumpkin responds to his rude shift in position by stepping on Essek’s hip with both of his front paws, before curling up back on Caleb’s lap.)

Essek dozes there for a minute, nearly lulled back to sleep by the steady rhythm of Caleb’s heartbeat, before a thought stirs him. “You are... all right as well, I hope?” He looks up, reaching to touch Caleb’s cheek again. “You were—there was a lot of pain, there. I know such wounds cannot be healed all at once, but do you at least believe me, about what I see in you?”

Caleb takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I... am trying to. I want to. It is difficult, learning to hope for things again.” He gives Essek’s uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But I trust you. And I trust my friends—I have seen many impossible things come true, traveling with them. Things are getting better, and now that you’re here they can only get better still, _ja_?”

“ _Ja,_ ” Essek teases, and pulls him in for another kiss.

———

With a snap of his fingers and an exasperated sigh, Yussa summons his serpent familiar back to his hand. “They _refuse_ to talk about anything interesting,” he complains. The snake regards him impassively, flicking out her forked tongue.

The wizard rolls his eyes. “They said _I_ had to leave the room. They’d seen you up there before, it’s no concern of mine if they forgot you were there.”

His familiar’s tongue flickers once more, and Yussa sighs heavily. “I _suppose_ if I want any profound esoteric insights on the nature of reality itself, I’ll have to ask the man directly. What a bother.”

The snake winds her way up her master’s arm through his sleeve, to loop herself loosely around his neck. Yussa strokes her snout gently with a finger. “I’m sure it’s too much to hope that with those two sorted out there might be a little less _drama_ from the lot of them. _Adventurers_.” The word drips with disdain as it falls from his lips; but, dipping his quill to return to his work, the archmage’s face can’t quite find his customary scowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading! and also for the lovely comments, i really appreciate it 💗
> 
> i tend to draw more than i write, but you can find me at kaehunterart on tumblr and twitter (i've been a little dormant on social media lately but hopefully that will change)
> 
> thanks~~~❤️🧡💛💚💙💜


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